


Bleeding Out

by Pinchetta



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, patrick stump - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Anxiety, Blood, Crying, Cuddles, Cutting, Depression, Drinking, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pete and Patrick (Fall Out Boy), Post-Hiatus, Sad, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Tears, Triggers, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:51:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinchetta/pseuds/Pinchetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'I can swallow a thousand screams. Watch me be who they want me to be. So many everyday weapons of self-destruction and I've begun to use them all...' **Patrick's POV**</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleeding Out

Bleeding Out.

 

I don't even know how I got like this so don't bother asking me. There were never any thoughts of 'why?' or 'I'm going to regret this in the morning' in my head. There was only me. I don't want to think myself out of this hole because it's getting so I need the darkness and feel sick in the light. 

My world spins so fast these days and I'm so scared of falling and not being what everyone expects me to be. I don't feel in control of anything and I used to think that controlling my weight would fix that but in the end it doesn't matter how skinny I am now because in my head I'm still the chubby awkward one in the back of the photographs, hiding in hats and hoodies and embarrassed to be looked at onstage because all I really wanted was to be heard and not seen. 

Sometimes I read what the fans and journalists and bloggers say about me; the gossip or the jeering and the obsessing, and I don't understand why they care so much about how I look or what I say. I make music and it's the music that should get the attention, not my body or my smile. The spotlight of all this attention makes me sweat and some days my own face is like a muddled stranger's, staring out of cameraphones and magazine pages. I don't feel real half the time. The stage lights are so bright they blind me and I take off my glasses to perform so I can't see the thousands of screaming faces begging for my affection. I love to sing but sometimes it gets hard to breathe and I feel so stressed out and down. Anxiety is my constant shadow and it's hard to always smile for the cameras but I do it because everyone has tough days right, and why should I be any different? I should be grateful for our success and I am, believe me, I am. People need me to be happy for them, so I try my best, even after a long jet-lagged day when a hot tight pressure has been building up in my chest and head and throat and I'm begging myself just to let it explode. 

The world beyond the tour bus screams and begs for every part of me but I can't give it more than I already have. Some days I can't even face going outside and I bury myself in music with headphones turned up so loud I can't even think because thinking never helps. My heart feels weighted and I can't escape from myself, not even for five minutes, not ever. My mind runs in exhausting, anxious circles and all the time a thousand eyes are watching me and I can't let them know what's behind my fake smile.

Behind the scenes I lock myself away. I shake and puke in hotel bathrooms and bite my tongue in public places, fidgeting, pacing and chewing my lips raw. I drink too much at night and I'm the last one to get up in the mornings. Sometimes the other guys worry about me but I shrug it off and hide in a book or the shower or an xbox game so they can't see the lie behind my eyes. Locked doors are my armor and empty rooms where I can scream out loud are like my lungs but on tour nowhere is private and no one is left alone for long. I have to find other ways of venting, other ways to slow my racing thoughts and nervous heart long enough for me to chill out and breathe. Thank god you can't see blood on black clothes and all we ever seem to wear nowadays is black. It's Fall Out Boy's latest “look”. 

I've always bruised easily and I play guitars until my fingers bleed. I can blame little injuries on just about anything and it's funny because all the fans think I'm so innocent and pure but I lie better than most people tell the truth. I can swallow a thousand screams. Hit the walls. Watch me be who they want me to be. Tacks, staples, scissors, lighters, razor blades. So many everyday weapons of self-destruction and I've begun to use them all.

Scar tissue bleeds more than untouched skin but I don't guide the blades anymore. I scratch and slice in secret frenzies whenever life gets so overwhelming I can't breathe right and I want to scream and scream until my lungs burst but I can't. It's happening more and more often these days. In men's room cubicles or tour bus bunks, in airports and hotels and dressing room showers I attack myself. Shoulders, thighs, stomach: places under my clothes where no one can see. Not the press, not my friends, not the fans or trolls, and not my brothers in the band. If I had a partner they probably wouldn't be able to stand the sight of me naked.  
Crimson drops and blue-black constellations.  
Scratches and cuts.  
Self-inflicted violence.  
Smooth skin sliced thinly and underneath it the tiny bubbles of white fat cells and the warm crimson release. Blood looks like life and death all at once but I don't want to die. The sharp flashes of pain break through the weight on my chest and the buzzing in my head and lower the pressure for a while. The world finally slows down and I can breathe deeply and and handle being alive again. It is my relief, my emergency first-aid, it is my way of staying sane and in control of something that is big and frightening and never ends. I don't know how else to blow off steam without upsetting anybody. I'm only hurting myself this way, not anyone else. No one else has to suffer.

Of course I know it's bad for me, I'm not a fucking moron, but we all have our vices. Some people smoke, some people starve, some people do what I do. I can't stop and I don't want to stop. I'm like an addict and cutting is my fix. Chemicals flood my body as my brain releases natural painkillers and endorphins, adrenaline and serotonin, but the calm and relief never lasts long enough and the scars don't go away and I'm starting to feel uglier and stupider every time I do it. I've left blood-stained towels and soaps all over the world. This is not something I'm proud of. It's not something anyone should ever have to see me do. My unmarked skin looks too clean, too pale and pure for someone with such a dark secret and part of me wants to destroy it all and not just the hidden parts. Destroy what people think of the man they know as Patrick, destroy the outside of me to match the storms inside. I can still carry on living, carry on pretending I'm fine.

This is me tonight.  
The anxieties and stresses of today's plane journey and press interviews are still boiling in my stomach and I'm alone in my hotel room swallowing the screams in my head with half a bottle of whiskey. The TV is on loud, some stupid reality show about rich housewives who constantly bitch about each other, and I crawl into the empty bathtub in my underwear and an old tshirt with a sterilised blade for company. 

Pushing deeper than usual, chewing my lower lip, I watch the streams of blood escape the prison of my worthless body and roll away and I feel at peace. It is my blood and it moves with my heartbeat and I examine every millimeter of broken skin as closely as I can until my eyes blur and the stress flows out of me. I will deal with the consequences later. I always do. Music plays in the void – my phone is ringing and I ignore it until it stops. I can conquer time and blur faces and failures. I feel more and more numb and calm as my eyes watch the red drops fall and pool in the tub, a scarlet puddle under my thigh. Hypnotic. Soothing.

But it can't stay like this for long. It never does. Every action has reactions.

The room starts spinning and I retch stomach acid into my mouth as my mind snaps back to reality feeling heavy and light at the same time. My red fingers drop the razorblade and I'm suddenly sweating through my clothes, breathing heavily, my shoulder and left thigh slashed and stinging and wet. Too much whiskey or too much blood. Panic knocks a sense of self-preservation into me and I'm back in sync with the world. My hands start to shake. The tub is splashed with red and I clamber out unsteadily, almost falling over. Blood trickles down my leg and stains my socks. I ruin another hotel towel cleaning myself up and use the last of my secret stash of antiseptic and band-aids. Most of them soak through quickly and I press my hand down hard over the worst until the blood starts to clot. The last of the booze finds its way into my mouth and burns going down.  
My phone rings again. I throw it at my suitcase without looking at the caller ID and stumble to the bed, lying down on lumpy sheets and pulling a pillow over my head. The buzz is fading and I feel empty and miserable. My slit skin is sore and sticky under my shirt and boxers. I can't be bothered to scrub the dried blood off my fingers.  
I don't want to live like this anymore, I want to be happy for real. I want to be saved from this mess somehow but I know I'm not strong enough to save myself and maybe it's for the best.

All my life I've tried really hard at everything I enjoy and it usually pays off but I've failed miserably at growing up and getting my head together and I can't see the good that other people see in my face when I look in the mirror. My friends deserve better than what I am inside. My parents deserve a son who is not a self-destructive liar.  
I'm in such a mess now and I feel so stupid. I'm still the same awkward little freak I always was but now I'm so much more damaged. 

Under the sweaty pillow my head is aching and my throat burns but I can't cry. The tears won't come because they're locked inside the heavy hurricane in my chest. A vicious circle of pressure and release and more pressure. Why can't I beat this? 

My hidden skin will never look normal again. Cotton smothers me and the whiskey is gone but I don't feel any better for being so wasted. I can't stop shaking and I feel dizzy and sick when I close my eyes. My stomach cramps and I lurch for the bathroom but it's too late. Vomit sprays the carpet. Why do I ruin everything, even my own body, when I've worked so hard for so long just to be a fit, regular guy? 

Staggering into the bathroom on trembling legs, I drink cold water straight from the tap, wash my mouth out and spit. My hands are trembling. Why can't I change? Moist blood seeps through my shirt on my left shoulder and collarbone. Small red stains bloom like flowers. I'm really drunk and I lean my sweaty forehead against the cold glass mirror and try to slow my brain enough to fall asleep. I just want this night to be over.

A key card suddenly beeps in the hotel room door and I freeze like a deer in the headlights, my heart racing with shock and guilt, maybe even shame. I thought I had my own room tonight! This is a twin room sure, with two beds, but I thought none of us had to share this time. I thought I'd be alone with my dirty little habits. I thought I thought I thought...

I watch with dread through the bathroom door as Pete walks into my room dragging a suitcase behind him. He's wearing black jeans and boots and one of Andy's Misery Signals hoodies and is staring distractedly at his iphone screen, texting someone. “Hey Lunchbox,” he calls my old nickname without looking up, without seeing the mess I've made, “We gotta pair up in rooms tonight, sorry. I called you like three times but you didn't answer your-”  
His eyes finally leave his phone and the words die on his tongue as he sees the puke on the carpet, the small red stains on the bedsheets, the empty bottle. “Patrick?!”he blurts in alarm, looking around wildly and finally seeing me standing there mute in the shadows of the bathroom. “Dude,” he says softly, his warm brown eyes flooding with realization and concern, “What happened?”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Suddenly I know that nothing I say now will make a difference because I can't lie my way out of this one. Whatever is about to happen I'll have no control over and for once I just don't care. Grabbing a towel, I wipe my face and walk wearily back to my bed, staggering on legs that feel as weak as water.  
I can feel waves of stunned surprise and pity radiating off my friend but he doesn't say anything yet. He never gets mad about dumb stuff I do and I hate myself for exposing him to this side of me. 

I sit down drunkenly on the mattress and drop my face into my hands. Pete shuts the door behind him and turns off the obnoxious TV. His light footsteps move towards me and the mattress shifts under my legs as his warm body sits down next to mine. The bedside lamp flickers to life.  
"I'm sorry for... this," I mumble wearily, “I got a little drunk.”  
"Yeah, I guessed that," he answers in a serious voice, “You smell like a brewery.”  
Salt burns my eyes and my throat hurts so it's hard to speak. I lie down on my back still clutching the towel and look up at him fearfully, my heart thundering into my ribs. I feel like a child who's been caught doing something naughty and I want to cry and apologise and run away. 

He's eyeing the bloodspots on my damp clothes, my stained shaking hands and I know that he's figured it all out. Shock and sympathy wage a war on his face and he presses his lips together into a tight thin line. In the past it was always him who suffered from these kind of breakdowns, the depression and panic attacks that left him crying and hopeless, the overdose of Ativan he took ten years ago, the constant worrying and second-guessing of his own thoughts.  
"I'm sorry,” I say again, sitting up, my voice a tiny croak, slurring my words, “I didn't want you to find out."  
"Don't apologise,” he says quickly, gently, looking at my clothes again and then at the open bathroom door, “Do you need anything? Like bandages or water or something? I can help you sober up if you want."  
I stare at him, tears burning the backs of my eyes. Why is he being so nice to me? He should be angry or feel betrayed or something.  
His warm arms reach out and, speechless, I let him pull me into a hug that I realize I've never needed more. I bury my face gratefully in his shoulder and feel hot with embarrassment as I start to cry properly for the first time in a year.  
"Why are you so hard on yourself?” he mutters, rubbing my back, “ You're such a good dude, Patrick, but you treat yourself like an enemy. No one deserves to feel this way. Especially you."  
I wrap my blood-stained fingers in his clothes and sob into his neck all the tears and groans and aches that I can't keep hidden anymore. I can't pretend with him here. I can't act like I'm coping when it's so painfully obvious I'm not. 

For a long time we just sit there, him hugging me and me crying all over him like a little kid.  
I can hear his heartbeat and it sounds steady and strong like he is. Like I wish I could be. 

Eventually he pushes me back and his soft brown eyes are full of nothing but concern and affection for me which makes me want to cry even harder but I make myself stop, sitting back against the pillows and the headboard and wiping the tears and snot off my face with my grubby shirt.  
“Did you clean the cuts properly?” he whispers, biting his lip.  
I nod, wiping my eyes and snuffling back hiccups of leftover sobs. "Uh huh. I'm s-sorry I got sick on the carpet.” I feel a little woozy but crying has helped somehow and the pressure is definitely off for a while. I guess crying and telling someone your secrets is just another type of release, and it doesn't leave scars.

"Don't worry about it,” he shrugs, “We're rock stars right? They probably expect us to puke in the hotel rooms. But seriously, are you just wasted on booze or did you take...anything else?”  
I feel like he's a kind doctor and I'm a patient. It's nice to be looked after by someone else, like being a child again with parents to sort everything out and keep the bad stuff away. Suddenly I feel very homesick. "Some aspirin,” I confess, ringing the towel nervously in my hands, “Not a lot though. I don't need a hospital, honest. I just...This isn't like a suicide thing. I didn't even want you to know."  
"Okay, it's alright. Are you sure though?"  
"Yeah."  
"Promise me, Patrick."  
"I promise." 

A owl hoots outside the hotel window and I wonder why I didn't answer my phone before. If I was so scared of someone bursting in on me unexpectedly I should have checked who was calling but I didn't. Maybe part of me is tired of hiding, or maybe I just don't give a damn anymore. 

Pete shuffles over to sit next to me on the pillows. He smells like sweet cologne, beer and body-heat. My eyes drop closed without my permission. I feel floaty and calm, that quiet exhaustion that comes after a good cry.  
"Hey Patrick, don't go to sleep yet."  
“I don't need my stomach pumped, man. I'm just tired.”  
"Ok, but I'm gonna get you some water and a sandwich or something to soak up all that whiskey. Do you think you're gonna puke again?"  
"Nuh uh."  
"You feel dizzy?"  
"No. I feel better now." I really do. Pete's here and he knows what I've done and instead of being disgusted with me all he wants to do is take care of me and make me feel better. I feel safe with him like nothing bad can happen now because he won't let it. I am safe from myself and I wish he never had to leave.  
"Don't worry, I'll be back in five minutes, ten minutes tops," he says firmly, reading my mind as he gets to his feet. Halfway to the door, he stops and looks back, his forehead puckering in a worried frown, "Patrick, hey, you know I love you right? We all do."  
"Sure. I love you too."  
I just don't love myself.  



End file.
